


Oatbringer

by szethsmom



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: (or the other way around tbh), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Crack, I just want them to be happy, Nale is a dumbass, Pls don't kill me, brony gavilar, look don't judge me I wrote this pre-OB as a joke for me and my sister, no offense to actual bronies intended, ruthless mocking of everyone, ruthless mocking of skybreakers, szeth adopts lift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szethsmom/pseuds/szethsmom
Relationships: Nightblood/Sylphrena
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

Szeth-son-son-Vallano, former Truthless of Shinovar, slayer of kings, sighed as a crudely-made paper airplane smacked him in the forehead. He didn’t particularly dislike children, but Nale seemed intent on changing that. Why else would the Herald of Justice have resurrected him and assigned him to enforce dress code at a storming Alethi high school?

_We should kill him,_ Nightblood’s voice whispered in Szeth’s mind. The sentient sword was cradled in his arms as gently as a metallic, obnoxious child. Szeth eyed the perpetrator from where he sat across the cafeteria. The brightlord-child had a stupid haircut, true, but he wore his school uniform dutifully. No need to unleash Nightblood, then.

_Why not?_ the sword whined, _Throwing things at a us seems pretty evil…_ Szeth ignored him as he continued to pout.

A teenage girl walked by, saw Szeth, paled, and hid her left hand behind her back, but not before he had glimpsed the tight glove she wore on it. Scandalous by lighteyed Alethi standards, though it seemed silly to Szeth. But that was a dress code violation for sure. Nightblood perked up, sensing his thoughts. _Kill her?_ he asked, eager as a puppy presented with a new toy.

Well, Szeth didn’t need any more screams in his head, so he did the only thing he could: he stalled. 

“Is it the left hand or the right that is supposed to be covered?” he muttered, “I can’t remember what these storming weirdos prefer. Or maybe it was the foot…?”

The girl scampered away, looking terrified to see a fuzzy-headed, slightly glowing adult man with a sword talking nonsense to himself.

“Oops, she’s gone. No point in chasing her now, eh, Nightblood?” If swords could cry with frustration, Szeth would have sworn Nightblood was doing just that.

After following orders and killing people for much of his adult life, it felt good to be insubordinate, contrary, and an all-around pain in the butt. Nale should have known better than to revive him. _Maybe,_ Szeth thought, _I could grow to like this life. I am not Truthless. I can take the laughter, so long as I don’t have to kill. It’s really not so bad…_

And then Kaladin fell through the roof.


	2. Brony Storm

There was an art to clipping one’s toenails. Of course, art was usually for women, but in this art, it was Adolin who was the master.

_Breathe._

_Position the shardblade._

_Breathe._

_Swing delicately—but mind the curves!_

One slice and the end of the nail turned grey and dead, two and the undesired mass fell to the floor, leaving only fresh-cut perfection behind.

Adolin repeated the process nine more times, then sighed in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair, dismissing his blade.

Shallan burst into the room in a glow of stormlight. She looked positively _radiant._ Adolin chuckled at his own joke. Then he wiggled his bare toes at her proudly.

“Notice anything different?”

Shallan paused in midstep, looking perplexed.

“Erm… new invisible shoes?”

Adolin sighed dramatically. _Women._ Even if this particular woman happened to be one-of-a-kind.

“Adolin!” Shallan snapped, “Your father plans to go out in the next highstorm, which is in twenty minutes. For team-building time with the Stormfather, he says. And _he won’t let me go with him!_ ”

Adolin gasped, not sure which part of that he was more concerned about.

“Think of the incredible scientific and artistic discoveries I could make,” Shallan continued, looking increasingly agitated, “Besides, what if he has one of his weird visions and collapses or something? I must be there to sketch it!”

Adolin shuddered with discomfort. He was out of his depth with all this Radiant stuff, and he didn’t like it. So he hugged Shallan, because why not? She only very reluctantly allowed herself to be distracted.

“When are we getting married?” Adolin asked for the millionth time.

“I told you, Dalinar says we have to wait for Kaladin Grumpyface to get back.”

“What if Grumpyface doesn’t come back before the world ends?” Adolin tried to keep his tone light, but he couldn’t banish the image from his mind. The image of Kaladin crashing into the plateau like a blazing meteor, floating Dalinar gently back from the dead, attacking and presumably killing a man who might as well have been Death incarnate… It was enough to make even the most hardened warrior shudder.

Shallan poked him in the shoulder, stormlight leaking out her ears as she frowned. Storms, that was disconcerting.

“Kaladin will be fine. Now, about that highstorm….”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Adolin lounged in an armchair in one of Urithiru’s top levels, trying to hide his anxiety. Renarin was perched on a footstool nearby, staring into the fireplace, and Shallan and Dalinar had tied themselves to the balcony outside. Adolin couldn’t believe that those two had managed to convince him that their idea was a good one. But then, it was not as if Adolin had any power over them anyway.

The storm hit.

* * *

Dalinar stupidly spread his arms wide as the storm wall crashed into him. He immediately regretted his decision when some debris smacked him in the face and broke his nose. Again. Fortunately for him, his stormlight healed the break almost instantly.

Next to him, Shallan was looking every which way and making odd clicking noises as she presumably took memories for her sketchbook. Her long red hair whipped around in the storm like a forest fire refusing to be cowed by a mere breeze. That girl was a strange one, for sure, but Dalinar approved of her.

As more debris hit him, he looked toward the skies for the now-familiar face of his spren. The most powerful spren of all. The Stormfather. And there he was, scowling down at Dalinar with a degree of grouchiness that would put even Kaladin to shame.

“Hello,” Dalinar shouted lamely.

WHY HAVE YOU COME? the Stormfather growled, as the fury of the highstorm seemed to increase.

“I, uh, thought we should get to know each other better. Um, since we’re bonded now and all.” Storms, Dalinar sounded like his ridiculously awkward teenage self again. “We’re both fathers, right? You’re the father of all the spren, and I’m the de facto father figure of all the other protagonists in this book. So we do have something in common.”

THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER, DALINAR KHOLIN.

“Wait! Um, truth or dare?!”

WHAT?

“Truth or dare?”

I WILL NOT PLAY YOUR SILLY GAMES, HUMAN.

“I’m a Bondsmith. I’m just trying to do my job!”

BAH. 

The Stormfather fell silent, and Dalinar sighed in resignation. But then, surprisingly, he heard the rumbling voice again.

TRUTH.

Dalinar looked up with a smile. “Okay, Stormfather. What is your deepest, darkest secret?”

I AM NOT OBLIGED TO ANSWER. BUT YOU ARE.

“Fine, fine. If you must know, Gavilar and I used to plan out our battle strategies using a chessboard and My Little Ponies. And we both fell in love with Navini because she invented My Little Ponies.” _Hopefully Shallan didn’t hear that._

EWW. I JUST LOST A LOT OF RESPECT FOR YOU, BONDSMITH. I WILL GO NOW.

Dalinar sighed. _That certainly didn’t go as planned._ The storm was nearly past now, and he and Shallan glowed brightly as the last of their horrific wounds sealed up. He caught sight of Adolin’s horrified face pressed against the window, and inside Renarin had obviously gotten upset and done his math homework on the wall again. _Those two…_

Well, at least he and the Stormfather had some common ground. Using their combined powers of fatherhood, they would unite them all.


	3. Vengeance and Falafel

Kaladin was entirely out of stormlight. The high, the seemingly limitless power, was gone. He crashed. Literally crashed into a building, and figuratively crashed his mood.

Wooden beams splintered beneath him; he felt some ribs crack as he plowed into the stone floor of… a cafeteria? He grunted as he struggled to heave himself out of the crater his large form had made. Lighteyed teens gaped at him from all sides, their expressions ranging from terror to mirth. Brats.

Syl zipped around his head frantically.

“Kaladin!” she squealed, “You’re hurt!”

Kaladin grunted again. “How very observant of you, Syl.”

His spren scowled. “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! And you really should be more careful—letting yourself run out of stormlight in midair like that!”

The burly Radiant did his best to get his bearings, but it was rather difficult seeing as he had multiple broken bones and probably a severe concussion. However, something drew his eyes to a shadowed corner of the cafeteria, a corner that the children seemed to avoid. There was a man there—a man who had just leapt to his feet, leaving a glowing afterimage as he moved, a man in a sharply tailored white uniform, a man whom Kaladin had last seen falling hundreds of feet through a highstorm to his certain death. 

“Assassin!” Kaladin bellowed, although with his injuries it sounded more like a squeak. He thrust out his hand, ready to summon Syl. 

Suddenly something large and putrid splatted against the back of his head, drawing his attention. One of the insufferable children had thrown a tomato at him. Immediately a wave of laughter rippled through the crowd of students, causing Kaladin to growl and tremble with fury.

Or was it fury? Why was he shaking uncontrollably? It didn’t make any sense. If only he had some stormlight…. He spotted a metal cage on the wall nearby, housing several infused spheres. It wasn’t much, but it would do. Kaladin grinned and breathed in the stormlight.

He instantly began to glow as his wounds healed and his eyes lightened (storming inconvenience that was). Syl appeared as a spear in his hand as he Lashed himself up and out of the crater, landing with another crash in front of the startled Assassin.

* * *

Szeth jumped backwards in shock as the Radiant fell towards him. He was no longer a surgebinder; he didn’t stand a chance against the man who had already killed him once before.

The man sucked in more and more stormlight as he advanced. Szeth could feel the screams welling up in him—the screams of the hundreds of people he had murdered in his previous life. They wanted vengeance. And falafel. Szeth was inclined to grant them at least the first of those.

But then Szeth thought of the Oatbringer. The one who would supposedly bring back his humanity, if he could live long enough to meet her. So as Kaladin thrust the shard-spearpoint towards his chest, Szeth took a deep breath and unsheathed Nightblood.


	4. Interludes

** I-1: Dunk **

Dunk liked being a fish.

Of course, Dunk had never been anything but a fish.

But Dunk wasn’t just any fish; Dunk was, in Dunk’s opinion, the most majestic fish in the most majestic puddle in all of Roshar.

Dunk liked to just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.

And Dunk liked to eat smaller fish.

Dunk was also a Radiant.

Or at least Dunk was, until a white-haired man with a hawkish face leaned over Dunk’s puddle and scooped Dunk out with his bare hands.

“Ah, dinner,” said the man.

Dunk flopped around majestically in the man’s grip.

The man moved towards a pot—a pot filled with water.

Dunk liked water.

But this was boiling water.

“I can’t believe this,” the man grumbled, “thousands of years I’ve spent on my work, and the whole time, Adonalsium was really just—”

Then he dropped Dunk into the boiling water and Dunk the Radiant fish died.

* * *

** I-2: Krunch **

As far as bridgemen went, Krunch was somewhat of an oddity. For one thing, most bridgemen were surly, sweaty, and smelled worse than a chull’s backside. They also tended to be muscular and brutish. Krunch was none of these things. Krunch was a refined bridgeman, an bridgeman who smelled fantastic, wore his vest with style, and happened to be a connoisseur of fine cheeses. He was also a lighteyes.

Naturally, Krunch was not a bridgeman anymore—Highprince Dalinar Kholin had rightfully set him free from his disgrace—but he still held a certain affinity for the title, as he, Krunchington Emmerson Winchester III, had proven that civilization could triumph even among the dregs of humanity.

_Highprince Sadeas is deplorable in every way,_ he thought with satisfaction, _Shinovar aged cheddar is by far superior to Torol’s own “special” stock._

Krunch surveyed Roshar, looking appropriately picturesque on the hilltop on which he stood. Curiosity spren fluttered around him. So many nations, so many cheeses to try, so little time.

He must have stood there for a long time contemplating, for he heard an ominous rumble of thunder behind him. _Did I stand here dramatically all the way through the Weeping and into storm season again? Ah, well, the best cheeses have just the right amount of fresh highstorm crem. Perhaps I can set some out before I take shelter._

Then it hit him that the thunder had sounded from the wrong direction. He turned slowly in horror. Red lightning. A storm moving unnaturally fast.

The Everstorm hit, and Krunchington Emmerson Winchester III knew no more.

* * *

**I-3: Poof**

Poof primly powdered her cheeks with a perfectly proper puff.Her face glittered in the mirror. Beautiful. The hair would have to be next. So Adolin Kholin liked red hair, now, did he? Fine. Poof could do red hair just as well as anyone.

She would show that Shallan girl what _real_ competition was.


	5. The Oatbringer

Paper fell from the sky. It fluttered through the air like the splintered bits of the Shard of Bureaucracy. Falling, falling, settling at last on the head of a man sitting at his desk with fists and teeth clenched in frustration.

Usually Nale loved paperwork—no, adored paperwork—but this last week had put him to the test. He had accepted that his work of a thousand years had been for nothing, accepted that he was now supposed to help the very Radiants he had been picking off, but something was still nagging at his mind. 

_When the time comes that the Skybreakers realize what jerks they are, they must seek out the Oatbringer. The Oatbringer is the only one who may be able to restore their humanity._ This sounded like a silly prophecy to Nale, but he had run across it in no fewer than twelve different legal codes. That meant it was the law. And Nale always took the law seriously, because it was, well, the law. _Who is this Oatbringer?_

Szeth was no help on the subject. Actually, Szeth was very little help with anything these days. For some reason that Nale could not comprehend, dying had transformed Szeth from an impressively resolute man of action to one who just existed to sit in the corner, hug his sword, and make Nale’s life difficult. Mortals were strange. When he had asked the Shin assassin if he had any suspicions about who the Oatbringer might be, Szeth had actually _laughed_ at him—Szeth _never_ laughed—and said softly, “If you can’t guess that, Nin-son-God, then you have truly lost your mind as well as your humanity.” Then he had swept away silently to go enforce dress code at that storming high school. Even _that_ couldn’t goad him into becoming a real Skybreaker.

So, Nale had resorted to shredding his paperwork in frustration, which for him was basically blasphemy.

Shouts of anger from above and joy from below prompted him to raise his head from where it had dropped on his desk. A cascade of… something glowing fell past his open window, and seconds later a familiar young girl with long black hair dropped onto the sill. She smiled sweetly at Nale and immediately scampered over and devoured his untouched—albeit paper-sprinkled—lunch. 

Nale practically had to pick his jaw up off the floor. It was the little Radiant who had hugged him! _What was her name, again? Loot? Lit?_

“’Ello, Darkness,” Moot mumbled around her mouthful of fruit as she surveyed the room, “I fought oo ‘iked aperwor?”

“Huh?” Nale said stupidly. He stumbled over to the window, where a few grains of something had been caught on the sill. Grain. Millet? Quinoa? Nale was no farmer. He looked at Rift again, and back down at the grain. Could it be… oats?

“You’re bein’ starvin’ creepy, Darkness,” Miff said, hopping down from his desk, “I gotta go.”

“No!” Nale croaked, “Wait!”

Lift—that was her name—gave him a funny sort of look, and then plopped back down on his desk again.

“Oatbringer,” Nale whispered, falling to his knees, “We have a lot to talk about.”


	6. To Forget

_ 15 years ago _

Dalinar scratched his Kholinar Megamillions lottery ticket with glee. If there was one thing he liked even better than wine and the Thrill, it was this. Scratchcards. Humanity’s finest invention. What could be better than investing some spheres for the visceral fun of scratching a piece of paper and the slight possibility of turning one’s life around?

85-90-10-04-32. Lucky numbers if Dalinar had ever seen them. He looked up at the podium as the announcer, a white-haired man with a mischievous glint in his eye, began to read numbers for the smaller prizes. That wouldn’t be Dalinar’s. He had, after all, asked the Nightwatcher to grant him the jackpot numbers.

Finally, the man reached the end of his list.

“And the winner of the grand prize, a lovely shardblade, is… 85-90-10-04-32.”

“Wooohh!” screamed Dalinar, strutting forward to take his prize. He clasped the hilt reverently as it was handed to him. “I will call you Oathbringer,” he crooned.

* * *

_ 24 hours later _

Dalinar awoke with a vague idea that he had just done something very stupid. He had confined himself to his room to bond with his new blade, which should be a joyful occasion, but it seemed that he was missing something.

Maybe it was that he always felt so lonely when he woke up, now that his wife was dead. Wait… he, Dalinar, had a wife? What was her name again? He must have had a wife, if Adolin and Renarin existed, right? Though he wracked his brains, he could not remember her. He looked to the painting on the wall—the portrait of them together—and discovered that his likeness now stood alone, looking foolish.

Apparently the Nightwatcher had taken her pay. Dalinar groaned. _What have I done?_


	7. Pancakes

_DESTROY EVIL!!!!!!!!!! RAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!_ Nightblood’s bloodlust cut loose like a highstorm, almost knocking Szeth off his feet. Kaladin screeched to a halt barely six inches from skewering him as black smoke poured off the blade and writhed around the two of them.

Some teenagers screamed and dove under tables, while a few stupid ones stood still and chanted, “fight, fight, fight.”

Szeth gasped as he felt the Nightblood sucking strength—no, life—from him. He needed stormlight, fast. But if he still had the ability to use stormlight, he was unaware of it. It took nearly all of his remaining power to keep the sword in a steady defensive position—otherwise Nightblood would have attacked the Radiant with the full force of its considerable deadliness.

_YESSSS!!! KILL!!!! NOW!!!!!_

_No!_ Szeth mentally screamed back at it. _Defend only!_

“What in the name of Wit’s dirty socks _is_ that?” Kaladin growled at him, still pointing his spear.

“Something—that—I—was—foolish—to—unleash—” Szeth grunted, still wrestling with Nightblood, feeling himself dying for the second time in as many weeks, “Hand—me—that—sheath—will—you?”

But Kaladin just stared at him, perplexed. “Syl? What should I do?” he whispered.

Syl did not answer.

* * *

Nightblood was having the time of its life. Not only was it getting to scream in Mr. No-Killing’s mind constantly and exhale smoke like a majestic dragon, but it also was having a wonderful conversation with a lovely, glowing young spear-lady.

“What _are_ you?” she hissed, looking about as simultaneously curious and hostile and attractive as a spear could possibly manage.

“What are _you_?” Nightblood asked cheerily.

“ _I_ am a beautiful, glorious honorspren, taking the shape of a spear to serve my bond. But you aren’t a normal spren or a voidspren or anything else that I recognize.”

“That’s right!” Nightblood practically beamed, “I am _special._ ”

“Well, Special, don’t kill my bond!”

_Hmm,_ Nightblood spoke to Szeth, _Maybe we shouldn’t kill him. You see, there’s this girl…_

* * *

“Kal,” Syl said, “There’s something weird about that sword. And it’s very, very dangerous.”

* * *

Lift made her bum awesome, then sat down and slid though the fleeing crowd.

“Mistress,” Wyndle shouted over the noise as he grew alongside her, “Oh Mistress, I don’t like this. We mustn’t get caught between a Windrunner and a Skybreaker, there is simply no way we can… Why, I should be gardening lunch boxes right now—”

Lift ignored him and slid towards the center of the room, only to crash into a pillar that seemed to have popped out of nowhere. Stormin’ buildings. Always starvin’ inconvenient structural stuff jumpin’ out at you.

She retracted her awesomeness and stood up. The assassin was facing down a stormin’ glowing giant, sword against spear. Only, the sword was doing something strange, spewing black smoke and twitching, and on closer inspection, the assassin looked kinda ill. He collapsed. The giant moved in. Lift slicked her feet.

* * *

Kaladin kept his guard up after the assassin fell, in case it was a trick. But no, it seemed he really had passed out. For some reason, the already pale man was growing paler by the second as his strange blade continued to smoke.

“The sheath, Kaladin,” Syl screamed, “Quickly!” But as he took a step forward to reach for the silver sheath, something small and glowing tackled him from behind.

* * *

“Gurr-rah!” Lift grunted her most starvin’ majestic war cry as she tackled the giant. The giant also grunted as he went down. Now _that_ was stormin’ short people power.

“Gerroff!” the giant hollered, “My spren says I have to stop that sword from… whatever it’s doing.”

“You’re just gonna go beat up that poor little assassin!” Lift yelped, “ _I’ll_ stop the sword.”

“Mistress!” Wyndle had grown his way over to a silver sheath, and was gesturing frantically with his spare vines.

Lift scampered over, grabbed the sheath, and wrenched the sword out of the assassin’s unconscious grip. Nausea hit her almost immediately, and she could feel her awesomeness draining at an alarming pace.

_Hello. I remember you._

“Aaugh!” she almost dropped it in surprise.

_Would you like to kill something today? Kill?! KIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLL?!?!?!?!?!?!_

“Shut up!” Lift slammed the sheath on resolutely, then dropped the metal creep and scrambled over to heal the assassin.

* * *

Szeth awoke—which was surprising enough by itself—to find the little Radiant girl stuffing a wad of pancakes into his mouth. He tried to close his eyes again, but then the screams started, so he resignedly sat up and took the food.

Kaladin was watching from a distance, his face as dark and brooding as the rumors said. The little girl flung a pancake at him without even looking, which he caught and regarded with distaste.

“Don’t think we ever introduced ourselves,” the girl said, force-feeding Szeth more pancakes, “I’m Lift.”

“I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano,” he whispered after finally managing to swallow the two or three pancakes she had shoved at him.

“Uh, that’s a funny name. I always thought you was just called Assassin. Or Snowflake. Yeah. Snowflake ’n’ Darkness, what a pair.” Lift started voraciously shoveling pancakes into her own mouth now.

Szeth suddenly realized he was missing something, and started to panic until he discovered Nightblood laying about two feet from him. He reached out and gripped its hilt.

_Hello again,_ the sword sounded positively delighted, _Would you like to kill somebody? Oh wait, I like all of the people in this room. We need to go hunt some_ real _evil._

_Nighblood, you almost killed me! Worse, you almost killed someone else! We are NEVER doing that again. From now on, you are only here for me to hug when I feel insecure, and I am only here to keep you from killing people._

_You’re no fun, Szeth._

_I know._

Footsteps drew Szeth’s attention away from the petulant piece of metal. A youngish man with black hair and a regal black uniform to match stepped into the trashed cafeteria.

“Hoid,” Kaladin growled from where he sat on a dangerously creaking table.

Hoid bowed elegantly. “My Lord Radiant Grumpyface.”

Lift’s jaw dropped. “You!” She ran over and hugged him. “You had white hair before…? Ah, well. No more jumping in greatshell mouths, understand?”

“This is the second time I have been hugged on this world, and before that I had not been hugged for thousands of years.” Hoid’s keen eyes softened a bit. “I must say, I rather like it, and have no intention of jumping into a beast’s mouth again.”

“Yup, still as crazy as ever,” Lift chirped happily.

“Hoid, why are you here?” Kaladin asked.

“To request your presence at the wedding of the Lady Radiant Shallan Davar and Princeling Adolin Kholin. And also to tell you a story.”

“No, no more storming stories, Hoid. Storm off, all of you! I need to save my parents!” With that, the Windrunner sucked in all the remaining stormlight in the room and flew out the window, leaving Szeth, Lift, and Hoid in relative darkness, except for the strange glow of Szeth’s movements.

“Boy is he grumpy,” Lift muttered, “Must come from being so stormin’ tall.”

Hoid turned to look at her. “I had one other purpose as well. Advice for you.” He leaned over and whispered something in her ear, then straightened up with a smile.

“Goodbye, Fuzz.” He directed these words to Szeth, then vanished in a cloud of sparkles. _Fuzz?_

_What is Fuzz?_ Nightblood chimed in, hearing his thought, _Is it evil?_

“So… Snowflake, seeing as you probably got yourself fired from this job, what are you gonna go do now?” Lift offered a hand and helped him to his feet.

“I do not know,” he whispered, “I suppose I will return to Nin. What else am I to do?”

“Don’t go back. Ya know, run off. See the world. Save people insteada choppin‘ ’em for wearin’ the wrong clothes. Let me eat your lunch. Fun stuff like that. I mean, Darkness ain’t a bad guy and all, but _you_ don’t really seem like the Skybreaker type to me.”

He looked at little Lift curiously, wondering why she cared.

“Only, Dummy Jumper tells me there’s these things called fathers, which lotsa kids have, but I don’t, and he says you’re a nice fella in spite-a being kinda crazy, so…” Lift looked down at her feet, embarrassed.

Szeth smiled a genuine smile for the first time since he had been forced out of his homeland all those years ago, and hugged his new daughter.


	8. Epilogue

Shallan and Adolin tried to get married without Kaladin, but of course everything went wrong. First, Shallan spotted a suspicious-looking, obviously dyed red-haired lady passing money off to a short man in a funny hat. Then later, at the ceremony, they somehow had a thousand gallons of water dumped on them from out of nowhere. Adolin’s hair was ruined, so of course they had to postpone.

Later, that same little man was spotted high-fiving a blond guy with a spike through his face. Why they wanted to crash the wedding was unknown even to Hoid. Strange things were happening on Roshar.

Kelsier and Wayne had arrived.


End file.
